


this sweet plague

by MagpieCrown



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: AFAB Bloodhound (Apex Legends), Canon Compliant, Disabled Character, Explicit Sexual Content, Introspection, Other, Porn with Feelings, Worldbuilding, also bloodhound is like...part deity. kind of. other than that it's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieCrown/pseuds/MagpieCrown
Summary: Because this is Elliott. He is gentle and generous andtheirs,and he holds their wind-shattered heart in his rough, careful hands, and they love him, oh Gods, how they love him. The Wild may not understand this, its love strict and severe and conditional, but that does not matter. It does not need to understand.
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	this sweet plague

_ like the petals in our pockets _

_ may we remember who we are _

‘Bloodhound’ is not just a name.

Or rather, it is not a name at all.

...They were an unruly child, unbridled by the heavy hand of grief, prone to anger and quick to take offence, expressing their discontent in sharp outbursts or bleeding it out in sullen silence. Burning hot and cold intermittently, just like Talos’s wounded core that shuddered underfoot akin to a feverish beast, rebellious and wrathful against the wrong that has been done to it.

Maybe that should have tipped them off.

Uncle saw something in them, way earlier than they could have guessed to look for it. He saw it, and steered them, and remained terribly cryptic about it. They have raged at him for that too, for the way he looked through them,  _ beyond _ them, always talking as if to some unknown entity instead of the one remaining member of his family, a broken creature in desperate need of support.

“The land will call for you, child,” he told them once and poked a hard finger in the center of their chest. “This right here. The Wild that you carry with you. You only need to be prepared to answer it.”

They never understood what he meant until the land took him.

Uncle was one of the few living who still carried the knowledge of Bloodhounds. His dying breath, his burning boat baptized them into one, but they were left with no maps, no charts, no compass. Only the endless expanse of the sky, the infinite sprawl of ice, no footsteps on either, no trails to follow, no idea what to do. The weight of expectation pressed them into the ground, as if trying to absorb them right back in absence of any other use, turn them into a handful of compost to nurture someone better, smarter, more competent.

They were untethered, the last of their safety ropes slashed, all stars smothered to dust. Barely fourteen and already uprooted so many times that they could delve no deeper than topsoil.

And then the land called.

Its call was insidious, sinuous, languid. A slow, mounting pressure of diving into the black waters, a wicked awareness of skin and wood and stone and every speck of vapour, the border between them blurring into pointless obscurity, into something as inconsequential as the difference between one skin cell and the next. The unending cold settled in their chest, nestled among the bruises in their lungs, made home there, forever robbing Bloodhound of the very human ability to keep the warmth in.

Maybe it happened overnight - but maybe Uncle was right. Maybe it was always within them. It was scary, at first, to feel their  _ self _ dissolve into the Wild. It was odd and confusing to melt into something so vast, to try to hold on and eventually to let go. 

But it was a long time ago. Bloodhound has had ample opportunity to grow used to it since, to the monumental awareness and the ancient grief and the cold that never leaves. The land is bursting from their seams like water flash-frozen to ice in the tender tree veins, whispers in their ears like rustling foliage, and they are not afraid of it any longer. Its glory is their own, its unease is their own, its pain and anger and joy are their own, too. The burden is heavy like any divine gift is heavy, but they bear it gladly.

Maybe the purpose of Bloodhounds was to stay there. To feel, to know, to protect, to be breathing, thinking extensions of something greater. And Bloodhound felt - feels, still - the strange vessel-like quality of it, a sense of direction and need and unity, an urge to act and the knowledge how. 

But then Bloodhound left. Driven by ambition, and honour, and loss - always driven by loss. And yet the land stayed in them, insistent the way the Gods and nature are insistent, massive and all-pervading because it cannot  _ not  _ be, but there is no - turmoil in them, no anger that does not feel like their own. Perhaps their fate has always been to serve it from somewhere else. Perhaps they could not even reach into the topsoil anymore, and it is no wonder that the first gust of wind blew them away.

Bloodhound has rejected their name, their face, their identity, and the Wild filled out the cracks of their scars with its own roots, buried their vision in white. The Wild is in their every footstep, grass and flowers and the dead sheen of the marshes, all its trees and beasts and shuddering layers of rock. The Wild is in their lungs, lichen and rabbit holes and shell cracks of rainbow obsidian, frost catching in their eyelashes, clouds crowning treetops like their hair. The Wild is in their blood, and their blood is in the Wild too, the blood of everyone they have ever loved soaking the tempered soil of Talos, mixing in so deep that they no longer know whose heart beats in whose chest.

...Everyone except Elliott.

Bloodhound arrives at the base the day before the monthly game. Winter is lingering on Talos, and goliaths were driven out of their too-long hibernation by hunger, and so Bloodhound was held back until the last moment to keep them, reckless and explosive, away from the settlements. The Wild still rumbles and churns in them, the shadows of the beasts crowding the corners of their eyes, but the threat for their humans is over, and for now, Bloodhound is here.

They drop by their own quarters only to leave their sparse luggage, make sure Artur settles in after the long journey, shower, and switch their travel gear out for something lighter. They make their way to Elliott’s suite straight afterwards, and the doors slide open for them even though Elliott himself is out. It does not surprise or worry Bloodhound: he has mentioned before that he would be away until afternoon, and it is still mid-morning. Drained from the journey, their every nerve still thrumming to the rhythm of the ship, they quickly undress, steal one of the shirts Elliott would not bemoan too terribly if it were to get wrinkled, take off their mask and glasses, and crawl into his bed.

The Wild curls its lip in distaste at the fabric of the shirt and the sheets, which is cotton, true, but synthesized and washed too many times to retain any resemblance of its natural twin.  _ Unliving is worse than dead, _ it whispers its cryptic sorrows,  _ when has it bled for anything? _

But Bloodhound only nuzzles deeper into the familiar, comforting smell, and releases a month-old sigh, and drifts off.

...Part of them wakes up at the dip of the bed: disturbed lairs, crooked nests, cliff-blown snow lurching as its weight grows greater. A spark of alarm lights up at the upset balance, a sharpened prick in their sleep-heavy limbs, but Bloodhound only acknowledges it for a moment before letting it go. It is safe, this lair is safe, the scent is safe too, and so they decide not to wake up fully until something more pleasant - until there is a wall of warmth against their back, and an arm slinging over their waist under the blanket, and lips secretively pressing wet, thorough kisses into their nape. The puffs of air brush the spot with coolness, and they feel Elliott’s mouth curve into a smile when it makes them squirm their way into the waking world.

“Mmph,” they say, eloquently, and wave a half-hearted swat that never even lands, making Elliott laugh and tug them closer. “Menace.”

“Maybe,” he purrs, nuzzling into their hair, and the hand around their waist wanders up and under the shirt, familiar callouses greeting Bloodhound’s scarred skin, until he cups and squeezes their chest, stringing a sigh out of them. “You love me, though.”

Bloodhound arches their back with a fluttering sigh, pushing forward into the caress, and considers his light tone, the ripples underneath, and does not joke about it. “I do.” They twist their neck until Elliott’s dear, blurry, smiling face comes into view. He is cleaned up, his hair and beard trimmed neatly for the game. They cannot wait to muss him up. “Hello.”

“Good morning,” he grins, his eyes twinkling. “Although it’s more like late afternoon now. Early evening, actually. How was your trip?”

Bloodhound quirks an eyebrow at him. “Is this genuinely what you wish to talk about right now?” 

“What, are you implying I’m not allowed to ask whether my great rival is gonna be rested enough for tomorrow? This is a sorely-- solerly-- purely professional inquiry, I’ll have you know.”

Adorable. Bloodhound would almost have a chance to believe him if not for his heartbeat, quickening in tandem with their own, a tidal push and pull promising to drown them both under the same wave.

“Your ‘great rival’ is rested, so do not relax.” Bloodhound’s breath hitches when they shift again with deliberation and Elliott’s fingers catch on a nipple. Their next words are little more than an exhalation, a confession released into the safety between them. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, baby, so badly.” Elliott surges in so quickly that half of it ends up spoken directly into Bloodhound’s mouth, squished between them as their lips meet, and Bloodhound swallows the words with a content, greedy little sound, happy to make them at home in the dome of their ribs.

Elliott tastes like mint and smells like his beard oil, a mix of pine and grapeseed and warm skin. The angle is truly awful like this even once Elliott gets up on an elbow, his - oh - delightfully bare chest against Bloodhound’s shoulder blade, but between that and his tongue slipping into their mouth as if to chase that sound and his hand still kneading their small breast, they feel pinned in place in the best of ways. Elliott is in every direction, filling their every sense, and the Wild perks up cautiously as it always does at anything brushing up against its borders - _A trespasser? A foe? A victim?_ _-_ but Bloodhound soothes it back into benevolence. 

Because this is Elliott. He is gentle and generous and  _ theirs, _ and he holds their wind-shattered heart in his rough, careful hands, and they love him, oh Gods, how they love him. The Wild may not understand this, its love strict and severe and conditional, but that does not matter. It does not need to understand.

Bloodhound puts a hand down and tilts their body in an attempt to roll over, to face him properly and soak in his unsparing sunlight, but Elliott’s fingers drift lower again, finding their hipbone and tugging them back against him with a sharp inhale of satisfaction that quite literally steals the air from them as they kiss. His touch, so close but not  _ quite  _ where they want him, flares something bright low in their gut, but before they can act on it further than covering his hand with theirs, an unmistakable hardness presses into the small of their back, and then with a bitten-off hiss Elliott adjusts and lets it slide between their cheeks instead, hot and familiar and tempting even through the fabric of their underwear.

Bloodhound breaks away from the kiss, panting, their exposed neck taut and covered with thrilled goosebumps, and Elliott immediately latches onto it to nip and lick his fill. Another shift forward brings his cock that much closer to where their skin is at its softest, a promise of more if they angle their hips just right…

“Houndie…” Elliott murmurs, nosing under their ear, and it is not a name, was never meant to be a name, but he takes it and warms it around his heart and turns it into one anyway. He moves again, but the torturous slide only draws a whimper from Bloodhound because it is not enough, not after almost a full month with only their fingers and a few jealously hoarded pictures for company.

They bring a knee up, inviting, welcoming, and with the next roll of Elliott’s hips the head of his cock, a tight, hard point of heat, almost  _ almost _ slips in - would, maybe, if not for the accursed fabric. Bloodhound moves to lie flat on their front, almost presents in a lewd arch of their spine to guide Elliott to get on top of them, to take them like this, back to chest, bury them under the weight of his warmth. They would love to see his face after having to go without it for so long, but they will take being smothered instead, they will  _ definitely _ take getting to feel him so deeply when he finally fucks them - they have mounted Elliott like this before too, many times, and there is something sacred, there must be, in being so close as to feel every minute tremble, every stuttered sigh, every moan vibrating from one chest straight into another.

But Elliott’s grip on them is unyielding, keeping them in place, and then the awful, incorrigible fiend sucks another kiss into the side of their neck and pulls away entirely.

“Elliott.” Bloodhound aims for admonishing, but it ends up coming out as a whine. The wildfire of arousal engulfs them, only stoked further by the cool air rushing in between them like coals under the wind.

“One sec-- babe-- I wanna see you,” Elliott blurts out, and oh, they could just burst from the gut stab of affection. He can be so suave and dominating and outright  _ dark _ when he wants to be, but they love the endearing bumbling side of him wretchedly, too. His fingers dance along the band of their underwear, dip into it, branding their skin. “Let’s get these off?”

Bloodhound brings Elliott back in again with a hand on the scruff on his neck - the hairs there are shorn almost to the scalp, prickling their fingertips, not a hint of anything they could hold onto, and so they reach further up and rake a hand through his silken locks. With the other hand, Bloodhound wriggles quickly out of their underwear, huffing into the kiss when the damp fabric comes away from their sensitive skin. Elliott’s hand immediately finds its way to their thigh, tracking the same path until it hooks under their knee. He seems to be in no hurry to undress, content to reacquaint himself with their body, his breaths fanning warm and deep over Bloodhound’s face as he digs a possessive hand into their flesh and pulls them closer.

Bloodhound takes initiative, eager to see the promises fulfilled, and trails their fingers down Elliott’s chest, giving it a firm squeeze on the way. They reach further down - and their eyes fly open when their hand closes around Elliott’s bare cock. He is already fully unclothed - probably got in bed like this - and they have not even noticed.

“Impatient, my dear?” They tease, praising his length with featherlight touches.

Elliott does not respond, not in words. He gasps at the contact, leaning his forehead against Bloodhound’s, and then tilts his head to plant small, urgent kisses on their nose and cheek and the line of their jaw as his grip tightens under their knee. The kisses bloom to the rhythm of his cut-off, involuntary movements as he bucks into their hand in mimicry of sex, hot and heavy and fitting so perfectly in their palm, but Elliott restrains himself as much as he can, keeps himself from taking or commanding or pulling away. Trusting, always so trusting, with such a vulnerable part of him too, and Bloodhound pets his smooth cheek and scratches through his beard and plants the chastest of kisses on his lips, a counterpoint to their hand tightening around him.

Elliott scrunches up his face and makes a small, helpless noise that Bloodhound immediately licks out of his mouth and swallows down. The hand under their knee tugs them even closer, and they flow gladly into the movement, hooking a leg over his waist. The heat between them is tantalizing, blood-warm and almost just as thick where it tethers them together, an illusion of erasing the border of skin. This close, the head of Elliott’s cock slides through Bloodhound’s fist, nudging against their front with messy, smearing kisses, and really, they have waited long enough by now, and so Bloodhound tenses their legs and flexes their core, and in one smooth, powerful heave they roll onto their back, trapping a slightly dazed Elliott between their thighs.

He recovers quickly though and beams down at them, and the ice in Bloodhound’s chest cracks, its edges softening with vicious thaw, grinding together under his welcome weight. Elliott is the only prey who looks happy about being caught by them - which is but another thing among myriads that make him special.

Bloodhound moves one hand to his flexing shoulder, cups his face with the other, finally getting a good, if blurry, look at him. They know they look haggard and greyish - they always do, but moreso after dealing with the goliaths - but Elliott has spent the time off here, on Solace, and his already tan skin is glowing with health, soft and smooth under Bloodhound’s adoring fingertips. The bags under his eyes are gone, and when Bloodhound traces their shape by memory his crow’s feet crinkle with fondness. 

There is a bloody smear high on Elliott’s brow, too - death testing his worth, deciding whether to leave her mark on him for tomorrow, and Bloodhound suppresses a frown as they gently rub at it with their thumb. The Wild nods solemnly at the sight, death its partner and constant companion, but Bloodhound only wishes to hold him closer, to keep  _ life _ as a secret hidden in every stretch of skin where they are touching.

Tomorrow they might end up fighting each other. One of them might kill the other. Bloodhound regards this knowledge with an ingrained by now level of pragmatism, with the ancient wisdom lent to them by the Wild that all living things must die - and then something else entirely raises its head to remind them that if they are to kill the man they love, they will at least make sure he does not suffer. 

No matter. Tomorrow does not matter, not right now. Right now, they need to remember what it feels like - what his heat feels like when it fills them, carving and molding them to his own shape, what it feels like to thaw out and breathe unshackled by ice, to flow together with another person, to  _ be _ a person against him.

“Come on,” Bloodhound asks, banishing the thoughts of death. 

With Elliott on top of them like this, the underside of his cock presses right against their clit, an aching, electrifying spark of contact, and so they roll their hips for more, delighting in Elliott’s answering moan, and catch his hand by the wrist when he, obedient and eager, moves to touch them. 

“No need for that,” they say. “Just start slow.”

“Who’s the impatient one now?” Elliott says around a breathy chuckle, but he does not argue, probably recognizing that it is not in his best interests anyway. Smart.

Bloodhound crosses their ankles over the small on his back, and Elliott reaches down to adjust himself, taking the opportunity to grab a handful of their backside as well, and at the first nudge of his cock against them Bloodhound rolls their back and digs their heels in and sheathes him in one endlessly long, sinuous movement, punching the air out of both of them.

“Fuck-- Hound--  _ Fuck,” _ Elliott gasps, mouthing at the ice-cracks of their sternum, and Bloodhound, half-lidded with bliss, wills themself to relax around him. “I thought you said to - to go slow.”

Bloodhound cards fingers through his hair, smoothes a hand down his quivering back, near tears themself from the wonderful, fluttering, deep stretch - Gods, they are home, they are  _ home. _ “Are you complaining, my love?” Their voice is rasping a little, catching on the mottles of scars on its way out - they should pay attention to that.

“Not at all. Nope. Not at all.” Elliott’s answer is immediate, and then he lifts his head to look at them, his face going slack. “Fuck, you are gorgeous.”

Bloodhound feels themself flush at the sudden praise, and they move to turn away, but then Elliott shifts forward on his elbows, pushing himself deeper in, and all thoughts fly straight out of Bloodhound’s head. 

He frees their coily hair from the bun, and Bloodhound huffs when some of it immediately tries to get in their nose. It is frizzy and willful and dry from constantly being crammed into the helmet, wiry and coarse, and they decidedly do not understand his fascination with it, not when his own hair is so well-kept and soft and flows between their fingers like leaves of artemisia.

But for whatever reason, Elliott likes it, and so Bloodhound will not question their luck, not when he digs his fingers in, down to their scalp, and gives it a firm tug. Speared on his cock and held in place by his hand, caught between the two, they bare their neck to him with a groan, and Elliott sucks another determined mark into it, right in the hollow under Bloodhound’s chin where they feel their pulse hammering excited and fast. They cup the back of his head to keep him safely in place, splay the fingers of their other hand between his shoulder blades to encourage him closer, bittersweet in their awareness that these marks will likely not survive tomorrow.

And then Elliott begins to move, first in slow shifts of his hips that do little more than remind Bloodhound’s flesh of his shape and weight and drag, and then picking up the pace, sinking into them with full-body rolls that reach into their very core and inject it with fire, warming them down to their fingertips like forgotten summer sun.

Bloodhound is always cold, cursed by their union with the Wild, carrying snow knotted into their lungs, but Elliott curses and hikes one of their legs up higher, and drives himself deeper, harder in, and suddenly there is springwater in Bloodhound’s eyes and wind chimes tinkling overhead in the clear, endless blue, and they are ravenous, always ravenous, grabbing onto Elliott and bringing him closer in and arching their back for anything, for all of it, feeling him mould them to his form again and again and again.

They would drown in him, happily so - Talos’s frozen heart would take it all, always, any offering and any sacrifice and all of their humanity, and sometimes Bloodhound does not know anymore how much is left in them, if any, but Elliott holds their deadwood-splintering bones and coaxes the dark bruises of their blood to the irrefutable surface and shapes their undeniably  _ human _ incarnation against himself.

For that alone, Bloodhound would love him beyond their death, with selfishness and utter devotion. For the bold, scorching gift of life that he does not even know he is giving. 

And then Elliott is pausing, slowing down to the sweetest, most awful of drags, reaching out to touch Bloodhound’s temple. 

“Houndie? Babe, you okay?” He asks, and he sounds worried - oh dear, why does he sound worried? Are they - oh no.

Bloodhound sniffles and lifts a quick hand to wipe the thaw from their eyes. “I’m alright,” they assure him and smile, watching his dear face soften reluctantly. “I simply - missed you a lot.”

And just like that, a grin blooms on him again. “Oh, you sap,” he laughs and bends down, and Bloodhound cranes their neck to kiss the flowers from his lips. “I missed you too, honey. Missed this.” He moves his hips in a pointed circle, and Bloodhound clenches around him with a drawn out sigh, pushing the back of their head into the pillow. 

Elliott is relentless, like Bloodhound might not be the only one craving this, like he needs this as much - not just sex, or intimacy, or love - but something beyond that, too, like Bloodhound needs to inscribe a reminder of warmth and humanity, to string a row of runes on the inside of their skin. Not better or more, just - different.

Bloodhound wonders if it is something they can give him. They pray, with all their heart, that it is. Elliott deserves the world. 

They coax him into a deeper, more thorough rhythm, ask him for it with their arms thrown around his neck and their legs drawing him closer in with every push and every breath shared between them, a sweet coil in their gut growing tighter every time Elliott sinks into them. The ice cracks and cracks and cracks again, prickling where it instantly turns into vapour and making Bloodhound’s skin buzz. It is glorious and perfect and fills them with a hungry desire to  _ be _ and the thrill of  _ being _ and they need more.

“Elliott - wait,” they gasp, and he immediately stills and then pulls away under their guiding hand. There is a concerned look in his eyes, a question already coalescing in the air, but Bloodhound muddles its crystalline formations out of existence with a wave. “Come here - like this.”

The confusion evaporates from Elliott’s eyes once he realizes what they mean, and he eagerly plops down on his back, one of his hands trailing over Bloodhound’s skin as if unwilling to part even for a second. They waste no time either, slinging a leg over his waist and straddling him and easing him back in with a punched out whimper, their insides alight with yearning fire from the momentary, unforgivable emptiness.

Like this, with their hands braced on Elliott’s wonderful, full chest, and his own hands squeezing their thighs, they can take him even deeper, and they both groan once they sit on him fully, tremulously  _ aware _ and held and kept. And then Bloodhound moves, quickly picking up the rhythm that Elliott has set, rolling their body in powerful crests that shake them both to the core and heat up their blood against each other.

They are too warm now - finally too warm - and so they take the shirt off, baring themself fully to Elliott. Bloodhound is at peace with their body, with the scars carved into their skin like tracks of woodworms, the odd scrapes and bruises and discoloured patches that have been here for so long that they forget to notice them, but even so it is hard not to remember suddenly what they look like when Elliott smiles at the sight as it he has witnessed divinity, incongruent as it is. Like he still cannot believe that he is allowed to have them -  _ he, Elliott, _ looking the way he is, fashioning his own body with the dedication and care of a sculptor - but also  _ being _ the man he is, kind and  _ good _ and burning so bright.

Bloodhound cannot tell him about the Wild, although it would probably amuse him to know how irrevocably it grows in them - how blasphemously close to the truth he might be, looking at them like that. But the other part is nonsense in its entirety - of  _ course _ he is allowed to have them, and if he still has any doubts - well, they will prove it to him, fiercely.

And so they do, pulled towards Elliott like water follows the moon, drinking in the way he moans and throws his head back at a particularly vicious twist of their hips, the tendons in his neck standing out under flushed skin. His blush is bleeding down to his chest, and they run their fingers through the waterline, blurring it with light scratches that make him arch off the bed with a curse and slam  _ hard _ into them.

Bloodhound’s inhales are rasping again, but they do not wish to put the mask on, carried in the undertow, their every nerve set on fire, and so they slow their breaths into the shallow-chested sighs of rivers in the traps of their banks and hold tighter on, the axis of Elliott’s cock inside them keeping their focus steady. 

They squint down at Elliott again, squeeze his heaving chest, lean forward for a moment to kiss him. His mouth is slack, but he responds immediately, an instinctive reaction to Bloodhound’s touch that pinches something in their wintering heart. Snow is falling over the two of them, settling in cloudy puffs around Elliott’s outline. If only he could see himself like this, wreathed in white, bathed in the evening sunlight. He is so desperately beautiful.

A hand closes gently around Bloodhound’s throat, an offer of support they lean into with a soft sound of gratitude, and Elliott’s other hand dips between their legs to touch them in fast, firm circles as it follows the rise and fall of their hips. A rush of electricity seizes them, light exploding behind their eyes, and they push into his touch with a miserable, needy whine. And it turns out that this was the one last thing they needed, and the teetering balance is finally knocked over and Bloodhound’s orgasm hits them like an avalanche, burying them in its shuddering core until they forget to breathe.

Their eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and in the tumbling darkness they feel Elliott’s hand grip their hipbone and the hold on their throat tighten, and in a few earth-shaking thrusts he spills inside them with a stuttered groan.

Dazed and lightheaded, Bloodhound sinks down against Elliott, blanketing him like snow molds itself over the landscape. They melt into a boneless puddle from the warmth radiating from his skin, their mind blissfully blank, for once devoid of whispers of the ancient elements, devoid of the calls to hunt, of the orders to slaughter, of anything at all. Bloodhound pulls in the smell of Elliott’s skin so close to them, right under their cheek, runs hands over his shoulder and arms, and just stays still for a moment, listening to their shared heartbeat.

Elliott moves suddenly underneath them - something irregular, something other than the heaves of his chest and the rapid hammering of his volcanic heart - and then there is a small sound and a thin squeak of rubber somewhere nearby. Bloodhound, still drifting and flurry-light, lifts their impossibly heavy eyelids and is greeted with the sight of their mask, close enough that they can focus on it.

“Your breathing,” Elliott huffs, and something prickles behind Bloodhound’s eyes. “Want this?”

Oh. They should, they really should - the rasping against the scars deep in their chest is a terrible, scratching sensation, and breathing so heavily does not help - and neither did Elliott’s hand on their throat, but by the Gods was that worth it.

“Thank you.” They fit the mask over their face, wait for Elliott to open the valve, and take a few deep, measured inhales until they can feel the lowest corners of their lungs expand and fill out, before sharply evening them out into a slow and shallow rhythm.

After a minute, they put the mask back down and rest on Elliott again. He is so warm that it makes them idly wish to be a cat or a rabbit, something small enough that could curl up to nap over his heart.

Elliott’s hand cards through their hair, the lulling wave-like motions of his chest under them bringing them dangerously close to falling asleep again. His other hand moves in slow circles between Bloodhound’s shoulder blades and over their ribs, the generous warmth seeping into them even as the skin of their back already begins to run in goosebumps again.

“I love you,” Elliott breathes out, and wraps both arms around Bloodhound, and pulls them up towards him, his still-sheathed cock shifting inside them with the motion.

Bloodhound lets out a small noise, oversensitive but jealously unwilling to part. Their bones hum in agreement with Elliott, pressed closely against his own.

_ Speak, child. You forgot to speak. _

Bloodhound nods, grateful for the reminder, and nuzzles his collarbone. Places a secret kiss there, then another and another, just because they can.

“I love you too.”

They love him. With all they can, they love him. It is not always a lot, but always all of them, and they can only hope that it makes him happy.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! find me on [twt](https://twitter.com/royalcorvids).


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